While Your Lips Are Still Red
by daryl-dixon's-poncho
Summary: The prison falls, and the group is thrown back to square one. Homeless and hungry, an icy despair is settling itself into their bones, and they begin to question whether there's any good left in the world at all. AU. Caryl. Richonne. Mildrea.
1. Chapter 1

_Carol_

She didn't remember much, but she remembered pain.

It was a searing, dizzying pain, she recalled, with no precise source that she could pinpoint. But her bones felt like glass and even the slightest pressure was crushing. Her vision blurred, and the outside world slowly ebbed away.

Blood. She saw blood. Everything was painted in thick, sticky crimson; the concrete, the walls, the fallen bodies.

Whoever was carrying her tightened their grip, and her breath caught in her throat as another bolt of anguish shot through her body.

Screaming. She heard screaming. In the distance, a baby was howling, its cries thin and shrill. A girl was wailing, and each sob was strangled with grief.

Gunfire. There was gunfire ringing out on all sides of her. The echoes mingled, and sounds melted and blended together until they formed a wall of background noise.

She fought to maintain consciousness. There was blackness closing in on her, cornering her like prey. Inky clouds seeped in around the edges of her vision, slowly creeping forward to swallow up the light and plunge her into darkness.

She was clutching something, she realized. Her fingers were gripping some material. Perhaps the fabric of a shirt. She didn't know why, but it was comforting to have something to grasp. She almost felt as if she were clinging to life itself. She dreaded what might happen if she were to let go.

Her strength was draining away fast, and suddenly a pleasant numbness eclipsed the pain. Death was wrapping its icy tendrils around her body; tugging at the roots that connected her to the earth. She tried to resist; tried to stay grounded; stay awake. Tried and failed. She was powerless as her hand fell limply away to dangle at her side.

Someone was calling her name. Screaming it. Or maybe it wasn't her name at all. She couldn't tell. People were barking orders at each other left and right. She strained to distinguish words. Couldn't. It all sounded like meaningless garble.

And then a fuzzy face loomed over hers, and that was when she finally slipped away into the dark nothingness.

_Daryl_

He'd seen the solider curl his arm back in an arc and fling something across the courtyard. His eyes had followed the small, round object as it sailed through the air; followed it up until the split second before it collided with one of the back walls of the prison. He had only an instant to brace himself before he was sent reeling.

The next thing he knew, he was lying flat on his stomach in the dirt, spitting out dried grass as the metallic tang of blood filled his mouth.

The impact of the grenade had knocked all the breath from his body, and his ankle had folded in some ungodly angle underneath his weight. The bone didn't feel fractured, thank goodness, but it hurt like a bitch regardless.

He tried to inhale, but his lungs were heavy and unresponsive. Smoke billowed up from the ruined guard tower, strangling and blinding. His eyes watered and burned and he was forced to squeeze them shut. He had no control over the greyish tears that slipped down his cheeks.

He sipped the air, and managed out a few shaky wheezes. But just when he'd achieved steady breathing, he found himself in the throes of a violent fit of hacking and coughing. Too much smoke had infiltrated his lungs, and the stench of death clung to the air like a fog.

He watched a steady stream of walkers trickle into the courtyard, drawn by the noise and promise of carnage. If the cell blocks weren't already teeming with them, they would be soon. And the tombs...the tombs ought to be swarmed.

_The tombs. _That's where Carol was stationed. She was in the tombs, with Glenn. He swallowed hard, hoping and praying that they were safe; that _she_ was safe.

He'd insisted she stay down there with the sole intention of keeping her out of harm's way, since she firmly refused to retreat into the woods with Beth and Carl and Judith.

Soldiers marched in through the hole in the prison wall. The men and women of Woodbury couldn't snipe for shit, but they were armed to the teeth, and Rick's group was vastly outnumbered.

Daryl itched to re-integrate himself into combat. He felt like a shivering coward, cringing in the background like that, but he knew that he was injured, thus hindering his skills, and if he pushed himself out there in the open, limping and winded, he'd no doubt leave the group down one more man than they could afford.

The walkers were swarming, now; wandering across the pavement, and stumbling over the rubble. Nobody seemed to notice. But Daryl did. He kept his eyes peeled for enemies living and dead alike. He was, after all, a sitting duck. He was lying flat as a board in the tall grass, weak as a newborn kitten, his vision compromised. He groped around in the dirt for his crossbow. Couldn't locate it. Stripped of his defenses, he was forced to hunker down, wait for the screen of smoke to lift, and pray he wasn't spotted.

_Rick_

He shot from the catwalk, with Michonne beside him. Both were clad in full-body armor; bullet proof vests were strapped tightly across their abdomens, and sturdy helmets protected their skulls, visors pulled down to shield their faces.

From below, a soldier open fired, releasing a torrent of metal teeth in Rick's direction.

He dodged, ducking behind a palate of wood as bullets whizzed by. Michonne dropped to the ground, quick and nimble as a feline.

She was lying flat on her stomach, still as a corpse, with only the tip of her gun peeping out behind the palate. Her heart hammered out a frantic rhythm. But there was no room for cowardice on the battlefield, so she shoved aside all the doubt and fear aside and, gripping her assault rifle tight, emerged from behind the palate of wood and let loose a fury of bullets upon the encroaching intruders.

The soldiers dropped like flies at the hail of gunfire, bright bursts of blood exploding from their chests and torsos. Seizing the opportunity, Rick jumped out from behind the palate and deftly picked off several of the Governor's men. Their knees yielded immediately and they toppled to the concrete, rivers of blood leaking down their faces, bullets embedded snugly in their brains.

And then, Rick saw him; in the distance, by the fence, sporting a wicked smile and a black, telltale patch covering one eye. The other scanned the courtyard with a burning hunger for vengeance.

He stood in the open, carrying himself with God-like poise, his spine straight and head held high, as if no harm could ever befall him. He was far too easy a target.

Rick aimed his weapon, using the metal mesh to aid accuracy. His hands were slippery with sweats, his heart pounded, and his breath froze in his throat. He re-adjusted his grip, peering through the scope, until the black cross was aligned perfectly with the Governor's face...

Michonne screamed his name a second before the pain struck. Blood splattered across the catwalk. Rick's hand jerked, causing his finger to instinctively squeeze the trigger, but the bullet didn't do so much as ruffle the Governor's hair. There was, instead, a hazy brown cloud of dirt where it ripped up the soil beyond the fence.

Rick gasped, clutching his arm. Warm, sticky red leaked out between his fingers, soaking his sleeve. He clenched his jaw and gritted his teeth, trying to ignore the anguish and push on.

Michonne gunned down the assailant; punched him full of vivid red holes. The man howled and went sprawling down onto the pavement, and quickly walkers gathered to dine on fresh meat. He was still screaming as they ripped into him. He drowned in his own blood, hacking and sputtering all the while.

Michonne stared at Rick, eyes wide in concern. He motioned for her to get down.

"_Are you okay?_"she mouthed out, but he disregarded her question with a swat of his hand.

But the truth was, he _wasn't_ okay. He didn't have a single clue where any of the others were - if they were dead, alive, or off bleeding out in some bush. The number of walkers in the courtyard was increasing, making it difficult to pinpoint a target who was worth the ammo. And to make a terrible situation worse, he could distinguish the rumble of an approaching vehicle.

The wheels coughed up gravel as a bulky box truck raged through the open gate. Gunners hung out the windows with minds only to kill. The truck slowed to a halt, and back door shuddered up, setting free over a dozen more steeled fighters. And perhaps it was just the way they carried themselves, but they seemed awfully confident in their training.

Hampered by his wound, and hopelessly overwhelmed by the sheer _number_ of the Governor's army, Rick made a quick and bold decision: the prison wasn't worth it. Its high fences and sturdy walls were something everyone had dreamt of over the winter; a place to call home. But home meant safety, and the prison wasn't safe. Not anymore.

There was a getaway car parked out back, stocked with supplies and weapons lest the need to quickly elope called. They had determined beforehand that it was possible for all ten of them to squeeze in, if they weren't shy about sharing a bit of personal space. They would make for that, he concluded. At this point, the only thing he wanted was for the nightmare to end. He saw only one way to achieve that.

"We're getting out of here!" he cried to Michonne, and she seemed unable to process his command. She lifted the visor on her helmet.

"What?!"

"Get out of here!" he repeated, whilst taking out as many of Woodbury's men as he could given his injury. Adrenaline had overshadowed pain, for which he was thankful. But he was still bleeding rapidly, and his entire sleeve was sopping.

The bullet had gone clean through the muscle: in one side and out the other. He would need it tended to soon - very, very soon. He could already feel a slight dizziness coming on.

"Get the others! Get 'em back to the car!" he shouted. "_Go!_"

She didn't even pause to nod; she just lowered the visor on her helmet once more, and made a run for it.

_Carol_

The back tunnels of the prison were dark and never-ending. They'd been branded 'the tombs', and they were certainly living up to the title.

She called out Glenn's name; once, again, and then a third time. No replies came echoing back as a confirmation of his safety. She and he had split up nearly twenty minutes ago, and she hadn't been able to uncover a single trace of the boy since.

He had taken off, no doubt, to face the Governor head on. It had been the only thing on his mind since his encounter in Woodbury - and, more importantly, Maggie's. He carried with him a seething thirst of vengeance, and Rick wasn't blind to it.

So Glenn had been posted down in the tombs with Carol as reinforcement. He wasn't happy about it - in fact, he was furious. Carol should've known better than to let him slip away so easily. She should've known he wasn't going to be content to twiddle his thumbs in anticipation. She mentally kicked herself for being so stupid.

The screaming and yelling and gunfire was loud and pronounced, even down in the bowels of the prison, and knowing that there was a battle commencing just outside...it was eating at her for certain. It was eroding her patience and twisting her stomach and picking at her sanity.

She should be out there, she realized. She should be out there facing the fight instead of cowering in the tombs and waiting for the fight to face her.

If the price of saving a friend was laying down her own life, she would gladly pay that bill.

But she never did see the chaos of war firsthand. Her gun was never aimed upon the body of a living man. For before she could navigate her way out of the darkness of the tombs and into the sunlight, an earth-rattling impact kicked her feet out from under her, and sent an avalanche of shattered concrete crashing down over her head.

From there, it was mostly black.

_Daryl_

His breathing had returned to normal, but his heartbeat was ever a-thumping. The screen of smoke had thinned, and he'd been able to locate his crossbow at last, and just the weight of it in his hands provided miles of comfort.

Still, his ankle was throbbing, and his greatest fear was to be hobbled. On the battlefield, being fast on your feet was often the difference between life and death. If you couldn't make a running leap to safety, you were as good as bait.

The density of Woodbury's army was decreasing. Rick and Michonne were damn good gunners, and Maggie and Hershel were lying low under some scraggly grasses, sniping from afar. The weaker soldiers - the older, sorer ones and the younger, callow ones - were plucked from existence as easily as weeds, mere fodder for the walkers.

But the stronger ones - the more skilled, hardened, capable ones...now _they_ posed a threat, especially thronged together in tight formations. They were proving incredibly resilient; difficult to target and even more so to kill.

Woodbury was certainly a tougher foe than Daryl had expected. And as the sun slumped lower on the horizon, he began to worry the havoc may yet bleed into nightfall. It would be almost impossible to fight in the dark. They had to finish it, and soon. Or else they just had to leave. They'd already prepared a getaway vehicle.

And that's when the roar of an engine ripped him from his thoughts, and he scanned the vista for the source of the sound. He spotted a small, white cube whizzing by through the trees, rapidly advancing on the prison.

When the truck passed the gates, it decelerated 'till it came to a standstill, the engine still spluttering away. And then, in the blink of an eye, a dozen more marksmen came pouring out the back.

The Governor approached them with a brusqueness in his step, and he bellowed at them an order to kill. Like puppets, they raised their guns immediately, and simultaneously fired. But they weren't shooting at the prison's inhabitants; instead, they were firing at the walkers.

Out of the corner of his eye, Daryl spotted a shape moving stealthily through the shadows. He allowed his attention to switch for just long enough to identify whether the figure was an sentient enemy or a drooling geek.

Instead, it was Glenn.

Daryl's breath hitched in his throat. Rick had ordered Glenn down to the tombs with Carol, lest Woodbury infiltrated the prison. It had been their appointed task to make damn sure there weren't any weak links in the chain; to make sure there was no way any stray soldiers could worm their way into the tunnels and strike from within.

But if Glenn was there, where was Carol? And that's when it came to his attention that, likewise, Michonne's silhouette could no longer be seen balanced on the catwalk. He could spy only one lone form: Rick's.

The Governor and his henchmen were still busying themselves with clearing the yard of walkers. Daryl saw it a narrow opening for him to finally emerge from hiding and find out just what they hell was going on.

He bolted. Agony flared up in his ankle, but he shunned it as best he could manage. He sprinted across the open. It was as if a red bull's eye was painted across his best. A fresh slew of bullets was propelled his way. And it baffled him to think that somehow, he evaded them all.

Glenn noticed him almost immediately. The scrawny Asian came sprinting up to cover his friend with a wild ferocity. Together, they made a mad dash behind a wall, and pressed themselves stiffly against the cold stone.

"The hell're you doin' here?" Daryl asked in a harsh whisper. "You're s'posed to be down in the tombs with Carol!"

"I can't just sit down there and wait for everything to blow over!"

Bullets pummeled the wall behind them, sending the two fleeting across the concrete. They dove for cover. If Daryl hadn't been wearing leather sleeves, he would've ripped the skin clean off his elbows for sure.

"So you jus' left 'er alone?!" Concern had turned to rage. Daryl would've never left _Maggie_ to fend for herself.

Glenn's determination left little room for guilt, but for a split second, Daryl could've sworn he'd seen a flash of worry in the other man's almond-shaped eyes.

"I have to protect the group. I can't do that if I'm down there."

"Goddammit," Daryl swore, shifting his weight from foot-to-foot, readying himself to make a sprint across the courtyard. The pain was enough to make him gasp, but once he took off, he wouldn't be able to do so much as blink. "Carol _is _parta the group."

And with that, he darted. Smoke provided a partial shroud, making distinguishing a target quite difficult, which played in Daryl's favour.

When he reached the gaping hole in the prison wall, he didn't hesitate to take out whomever or whatever stood in the entrance - walkers and humans alike. One soldier, who couldn't have been much older than Carl, sunk to his knees, wretched gagging noises gurgling up out of his throat, a bright red foam seeping out between his lips.

Daryl tried not to let it bother him. After all, he had _her_ to think about.

He was going to save Carol, and lead her to safety, and whoever blocked his path would lose by default.

He passed into the cool, shady tunnel, wishing he had a flashlight to aid him. Yet, he did not, so he made do with the pale rays of the winter sun that poured in through the breach.

There was a knot of walkers just ahead, crouched down in the rubble, clawing fervently at the debris like chickens scratching for bugs. His stomach twisted, and he wasn't sure precisely why. A gut feeling, he supposed.

To avoid attracting unwanted attention, Daryl put them down with his blade as opposed to his gun. They were far too preoccupied to notice him until it was a moment too late.

He kicked the bodies out of his way and leaned in to inspect what the walkers been so eager to uncover. He started flinging aside chunks of concrete, fully expecting to discover the corpse of stupid rat that had been smothered to death when the bomb obliterated the wall.

He never in a million years would've guessed that he'd find Carol.

She was visibly battered and bloodied, and at first he thought she was dead, and his heart had clenched up tightly. But then he realized, upon further examination, that she was, in fact, alive - drained of force and barely clinging to consciousness, yes, but _alive. _

He choked out a bubble of nervous, relieved laughter, working frantically to liberate her. She had a nasty bump on her forehead, swollen and sickly shades of purple, blue and red, and numerous cuts and bruises, but she seemed to have been buried just deep enough to avoid any bites or scratches.

Daryl had just begun to hoist her up when he heard footfalls quickly approaching around the corner. He froze. He couldn't drop Carol, and he couldn't grab his weapon, either.

But, as luck would have it, the footsteps were not those of an impending enemy - they were, in fact, the footfalls of Michonne.

He let out a deep sigh of relief when she revealed herself; short, quick breaths, a hand on her katana, and an urgency in her eyes.

"This place is goin' down," she told him. "Rick wants us to make for the car; get outta here while we still can."

Daryl nodded. He needed no further convincing. "Sounds about the best idea I've heard all damn day."


	2. Chapter 2

_**Alright folks! This is the second chapter. Now, I think it goes without saying that this story is AU. Also, I realize that the Carol flash forward thingy in the beginning may have caused some confusion. I hope this chapter clears it up a bit. **_

_**Tell me what you think! **_

_Maggie_

The tall, swaying grasses concealed her from sight, and so when her bullets pierced human flesh, the soldiers never knew what hit them. She took care to kill and not maim. She didn't want to see anymore needless suffering if she could help it.

She pretended she had blinders on. She kept her vision focused in only one direction: straight ahead. She never once glanced over to even check on her father. That little turn of the head could be the difference between life and death.

Suddenly, a firm hand clasped around her arm, and she nearly jumped out of her skin. Her eyes went large as dinner plates, pupils blown wide and round, and she was nearly ready to jerk violently away and open fire on her assailer when she realized it was not an assailer at all who'd grabbed her; it was Glenn.

He knelt down in the grass beside her, clasping a sweaty hand gently over her trembling lips. Maggie expression softened as she was overcome by relief.

But why he had forsaken his post in the tombs? She wondered.

"What are you doing here?" She asked, her voice a hissing whisper. She was overjoyed to see him alive, in truth, and yearned to leap into his arms for a lasting embrace, but the time for that was later.

Much, much later.

"You're getting out of here," he told her firmly, relaxing his grip yet not removing his fingers entirely. "I'm gonna put a bullet in the Governor, and after that, we're getting out of here."

Maggie's eyes cut like a green steel blade.

"No," she protested, her tone assertive. "We can't just up an' leave. The others are countin' on us. An' why aren't you down in the tombs?"

"_Everyone_ is leaving," Glenn persisted, averting Maggie's question entirely. "But I'm not going anywhere 'till the Governor's dead."

"I thought we talked about this, Glenn," If she could've, she would've folded her arms in opposition. "What happened, happened. I'm not runnin' off while you risk your ass - _again. _We stay together, fight together, die together."

Glenn's hand moved down to curl over hers, running the pad of his finger over her wedding band. He'd scrubbed it clean before he'd presented it to her; polished the gold 'till it shone, scoured the diamond 'till it glistened. It'd taken a full hour of tedious scrubbing with a smelly old toothbrush to get it that way.

But it was worth it, just to see her smile.

"Not this time, Maggie," he told her softly, reaching up to cup her soft cheek. They were in the midst of a violent battle, and there they were, basking in each other's comfort like they were sprawled out in some sunny meadow.

"Everything I've done has been for _you_," he went on, ignoring the screams and shouts and gunfire. "To keep you safe. To keep you warm. To keep you fed. To keep you happy. It's all been for _you._ But now, I need you to do something for me."

A salty tear slipped down her cheek, her eyes reddening, bringing out her pale green irises.

"I need you to run to the car, and don't look back. No matter what happens, you don't stop, and you don't come back for me. Got it?"

She nodded, a wretched, sore lump forming in her throat. He tangled a hand in her brown hair, and pressed their foreheads together. The sweat made the skin stick. It was disgusting, but neither noticed at all.

"I love you," he whispered.

"I love you too," she whispered back. He caught her lips in a final kiss, before breaking away.

"Now go," he told her. "Go, and promise me you won't stop 'till you reach the car."

"I promise," Maggie swore. Her voice came out strangled.

And the next thing she knew, she was running.

Her feet thudded against the hard, packed dirt as she made a beeline for the fringe of trees. A chunk of fence had been removed the day before. She kept it in her sights. That was her first goal. Make it to the fence. Then make it into the forest. Then make it to the car.

She repeated it in her mind like a mantra.

Fence. Forest. Car.

Fence. Forest. Car.

She was so occupied, in fact, with those three little words that she forgot entirely to keep her footing. In an instant, her legs had twisted together. She had only a second to throw her arms out in front of her.

She landed hard on the ground, the grass mere inches from her face. She breathed out once, and then scrambled to get back on her feet. She frantically brushed at her pants, more of a reaction than a neccessity.

The second she was about to take off running again, a chilling scream ripped through the prison yard, rooting her to her spot. Her blood ran cold in her veins.

It could've been anyone, she reminded herself. But, try as she may, she couldn't shake the visceral feeling that something was dreadfully wrong.

It had sounded so much like Glenn. And perhaps it was simply her paranoid imagination. She was, after all, terrified of losing him. Maybe her mind was just playing into that fear.

But she had to check.

She had to make sure.

He'd begged her not to stop for anything; to pay no mind to anything that may happen. To focus only on making it to the car. And she'd promised she would. She had meant to keep it, she really had, but she _had_ to make sure; she had to look.

So, hesitantly, she did.

And instantly wished she hadn't.

Her stomach dropped, her heart clenched up, and her lips parted as if to scream, yet nothing of the sort came out. Just an dry, choking gasp as she watched Glenn fall to his knees.

He turned his head in her direction, checking to see if she'd done as he'd asked her too. Saw that she hadn't. There was a defeated, pleading look in his eyes, and a river of blood streaming from his mouth, mingling with saliva and dripping off his chin.

There was a red splotch on his shirt, crimson leaking out. A gunshot wound. A bullet through his lung. Maggie wanted to rush over to his side; clutch him, embrace him, comfort him, and sob.

She could do none of those things.

She had to run.

_For Glenn._

She had to make it for Glenn.

_Andrea_

She awoke to a brumous morning. The fog was thick enough to cut with a knife, and tendrils of mist curled around the tree trunks. It was chilly, but the moisture plastered her clothes to her skin. She threwthe woolen blanket aside, and sat up, the floorboards creaking under the movement.

The house was dark, but for one window, and pale rays pouring down through the dirty panes. Spiders had spun their webs in every nook and cranny, and all throughout the night, rats scurried about in the attic.

Every noise had sent her into a panic, a million scenarios flashing across the screen of her mind.

Now she had a long, tiresome day ahead of her, and she'd be functioning on a wink of sleep and a few mouthfuls of muddy creek water.

But Milton was taking it harder, she knew. He was the one truly suffering.

From the moment the apocalypse began, until the moment he agreed to make for the prison with Andrea, all he'd ever known was Woodbury: high, sturdy walls, plenty of resources, squealing children with dogs at their heels, and sentinels standing vigil at every turn.

He'd only ever known safety, and he'd been plunged into the icy waters of danger headfirst. Andrea couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt every time he shivered; every time she heard his stomach growl; every time he whimpered as another thorn pierced his foot.

He'd lost his other shoe in the creek, and they'd been unsuccessful in locating it.

Andrea watched him sleep. He'd found rest easier much than she had. He was curled up under the thick blanket, glasses placed carefully off to one side, his shirt stained and filthy, his head resting on his arm. There was no way he could've been comfortable, but he'd been so exhausted, it hadn't even mattered.

The day before last, they'd been chased like prey. They escaped intact, but only narrowly.

Intact, but not unscathed.

Milton had sliced his ankle on a rusty, jagged pipe that jutted from the wall, unseen to him until it was too late. They'd bound the wound as best they could with a strip of cloth that had once been his sleeve, but the infection had already begun. And Andrea was afraid that if he didn't get help soon, he'd die.

And then he'd turn.

During the pursuit, they'd veered off course to hunker down in a house for the night. But now that Andrea surveyed her surroundings, she realized she had absolutely _no_ idea where they were. She could distinguish no landmarks. Every tree looked exactly the same, and she could not spy the peaks of any guard towers poking into the sky.

For all she knew, they were going in circles, like dogs chasing their tails: always running, but never getting anywhere.

A moan from behind startled her, and she jumped and whirled around. In the blink of an eye, her pocket knife was out and opened with a click, and she was ready to pounce on her attacker; stab him clean in the brain.

But it was merely Milton, awaking from a shallow sleep, transitioning from one nightmare to the next.

He turned around, the floorboards groaning, and Andrea let out a deep breath of relief; placed a hand to her chest, snapped her knife shut, and stuck it back in her pocket.

"What time is it?" He asked wearily, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with the heels of his palms.

"I don't know," she replied, gazing out the window, peering past the condensation. "It's too foggy. The sun's all covered up. But it can't be noon yet."

Milton started packing up the bed; rolled up the blanket, and squished it into their one backpack. It was already crammed full of other things, and the zipper wouldn't close all the way, which annoyed him to no end.

He was interrupted by a loud rumble in his belly. He tried to ignore it, but the volume only increased, and he could feel his stomach puckering with every gurgle. It felt like a great fist was clenching his innards. He hated being hungry, but there was no other choice.

They hadn't packed any food.

They hadn't thought they would need any.

Andrea had estimated the prison was only a half a day's walk away. There would be plenty of food there, she had promised, and water and shelter and a place to rest.

And other people, too. _Good _people.

Admirable, honorable people who would no doubt take them in. Hershel would see to Milton's injury, and Daryl would supply fresh meat, and Carol would cook it 'till it melted in their mouths and the flavors danced like wildfire on their tongues.

Now they had none of that, and even less.

"We need to get to the prison fast," Andrea said, wandering into the kitchen. "But we won't make it far without any food."

She began rooting through the cabinets. The first one yielded nothing but a few dying roaches, lying on their backs with their brown bellies facing up, legs twitching endlessly. Her lip curled in disgust and she shut the doors quickly.

After everything she'd seen and smelled in the past year, she still hated cockroaches.

The second cabinet harbored no roaches, but it was unhelpful all the same. She furiously flung several empty cans to the floor, and they scattered in every direction with loud clatters.

But when she opened the third cabinet, she espied three small jars on the top shelf.

Baby food.

She smiled at her discovery, allowing herself just one brief moment to enjoy victory before spinning one of the smooth glass jars in her hand to read the label.

Ninety calories.

Her heart sunk. Ninety calories wouldn't take them far at all. They would be lucky to last a mile.

Still, ninety calories were better than zero, and she resolved to consume one jar each for breakfast, and save the third to share for lunch, if it came to that.

She and Milton dined on the floor, cross-legged, bellies aching and mouths watering. Andrea let Milton take the sweeter, more delectable banana one and she settled for an appetizing, swampy puree of green beans.

_Bon Appétit._

They had no utensils, so they used instead what they had: their hands.

Andrea slid a finger into the mush, too famished to be fazed by the goopiness, and curled the digit upward like a hook to spoon out the substance. She tried not to think about slime as she brought it to her lips.

To her surprise, the first taste didn't send her recoiling after all. In fact, she liked it.

Maybe she was just too malnourished to tell, but it actually tasted _good..._

...which made it disappear all the faster.

Soon, she was scraping the sludge from the inside of the jar, licking whatever little drops she could. Milton had scarfed down his as well, and sucked the flavor from his forefinger.

She laughed.

It started as a giggle, and then advanced to a chuckle, and before they knew it, they were both roaring and sputtering and their eyes grew moist. Cramps clutched their sides, but they paid them no mind.

They were sleep deprived and starving, half-crazy and barely alive. They were suckling baby food off their fingers, for god's sake! They had nothing to lose.

After the laughing fit had passed, they made extra sure they had everything they needed, and set off into the unknown.

_Daryl_

By the time he arrived at the car, Daryl was sure he was going to pass out.

Her body had seemed to grow heavier and heavier every eloping minute and his muscles screamed for relief. His legs were sore and his heart pounded so rapidly he thought it would burst through his ribs.

But he couldn't put her down. Not yet. She had the fabric of his shirt bunched up in her hand, clinging to him desperately.

He feared that if he let go of her, she'd let go of him.

He didn't ever want her to let go.

He couldn't see Rick, or Michonne, or Hershel. The only other who had made it was Maggie, and she was a disaster. She had snot and tears dripping down her face, and her every wail no doubt attracted walkers from miles away.

She clutched her sister close, fingers knotted into Beth's blonde hair, sobbing and shaking and screaming, yet she uttered no words.

She didn't need to.

The message was displayed clearly in her hysteria, and Daryl felt a twinge of guilt jab at his heart. He shouldn't have left Glenn, he knew. But at the same time, if he hadn't...

The gruesome thought never reached a conclusion, because just then, Carl leapt out from the car, Judy fussing in his arms, a look of sheer confusion on his face.

Maggie was sobbing and clinging to Beth, Daryl was canted breathlessly against the side of the car with an unconscious Carol in his arms, his father and Michonne and Glenn and Hershel were nowhere to be seen.

From their spot in the woods, Carl could spy the prison: the burning guard towers, the choking smoke coiling up towards the sky, the dozens of soldiers swarming the courtyard, the tanks, the trucks, the blazes of gunfire.

He glanced over at Daryl.

"Where's my dad?" He asked, voice raised in concern. "You have to go back for him!"

Daryl found he was at war with himself. On one hand, Rick was his best friend - the leader of their group, no matter how tattered it may now be, and the big brother he'd lost; the big brother he'd never had.

But on the other hand, if he left, Carl, Beth and Judith would be alone. Maggie was in no state to help them - she could neither fight nor flee, and Carol was limp and half conscious. If they found themselves ambushed, they would not even be able to drive away.

Whatever happened, Rick wouldn't want that.

Rick always put the safety of his family above his own. Everything he did was for them; was for Carl and Judith. And, for a long time, for Lori too.

He peered frantically around for any sign of the others, chewing his bottom lip, an anxiety settling in his bones.

He was nearly ready to order everyone to load into the car when two figures appeared in the distance, wending their way through the trees and growth, kicking up leaf litter as they did so.

Rick and Michonne.

He breathed out a sigh of relief, but as they approached, he realized their arrival brought nothing to celebrate.

Rick noticed Maggie crying hysterically, and his eyes went to Daryl, his expression asking the question he dared not speak aloud. Daryl shook his head solemnly as a response. Rick's gaze fell, and he raked his fingers through his thick hair.

Glenn hadn't just been a dear friend to him, he'd saved his _life. _And in the end, Rick had failed to return the favor. A sore lump formed in his throat as he held back tears, struggling to keep himself together for Carl.

"Hershel?"

Rick felt another stab of remorse, and he scrubbed a hand across his face.

"No."

_Carol_

Someone was leaning over her, their features undefinable, and there was a sudden hotness on her cheek.

A hand. Rough skin, but a gentle touch.

Rick.

The name was frozen on her lips. She wanted to say it, but she could not muster the strength to do so.

"She's awake," he noticed, his voice muffled and garbled to her ears; drowned out by the wailing.

"She comes an' goes," she heard someone else explain. This voice was raspier, the accent thicker. She would've smiled if she could've.

_Daryl._

That was her last distinct thought before she fell away into oblivion.

_Andrea_

"We're lost."

Milton stared at her, grey bags underneath his bloodshot eyes, his tone full of accusation. The edge of his makeshift walking stick was buried in the soft, damp earth, and he kept his right foot suspended above the ground.

The infection was getting worse. The slightest contact was excruciating, and he was now coming down with a fever. He couldn't survive another night. _They_ couldn't survive another night.

But she had to keep the flame of hope alive. Milton's faith was dwindling, beclouded by agony and fatigue, and with it, his motivation. And motivation was something they couldn't afford to lose.

"No we're not," she lied, bringing a hand up to her face to block the sun from her eyes. "We're just...not there yet."

Milton limped over to her side, propping himself up with the sturdy branch.

"This isn't the way we came last time. You should just go back as far as you can, so you can start over in the right direction." He suggested.

"You'd never make it. Not a chance. Not with that injury." She told him. He swallowed hard, a sudden sheen of sadness in his eyes.

"Maybe I'm not meant to," he replied. "I've only ever known Woodbury, and the only reason I came along was because you wanted me to."

"Milton..."

"You ought to just leave me," he insisted, looking and sounding equally as haggard. Exhaustion and pain had carved deep lines in his face, his chin and cheeks were covered in brown scruff and his hair was disastrous. He seemed to have aged ten years in two days. "Otherwise I'll just tie you down."

Andrea's mouth hung open, her eyes wide in disbelief. She shook her head firmly.

"No. You wouldn't last a _day_ out here." She said, aghast. Milton gazed down somberly at his ankle. There was blackish blood oozing through his pant leg, and that morning, when they peeled away the fabric to change the wrappings, it gave off the stench of death.

"I'm not going to last a day anyway. Not unless we find the prison soon - _very_ soon. It would take a miracle."

But Andrea's decision was unswayed. She wouldn't leave Milton. Not a chance. She was carrying enough guilt on her back already.

"We'll go that way," she declared, pointing towards a cluster of bushes in the distance. The leaves had turned crisp, the green already fading and fringed with brown. "Follow the highway. Maybe we can find some more berries."

_Daryl_

Their car sped down the road, tires coughing up gravel, leaves sent flurrying in its wake. An entourage of walkers scrambled after them, but were always quickly deserted in the dust.

Maggie was inconsolable. She'd found some solace in her sister's embrace, but after learning of her father's death, not even Beth could comfort her. The younger Greene tried to be strong, but it didn't last very long, and soon both girls were heaving sobs.

The relentless weeping had upset Judith even further, and now she was squalling wildly, chubby little fists bumping Carl over and over as she squirmed in distress.

Michonne rode in the front seat with Rick, gun aimed out the window in case any of Woodbury's men sprang from the treeline to launch a surprise attack.

Rick was gripping the steering wheel, fingers curled tautly around the rubber, knuckles turning white.

Daryl had hastily rearranged a few bags of dried rice and crates of canned goods so he could lay Carol down in the very back. He supported her head with his arms, constantly glancing down to make sure she was still breathing; to make sure her breast still rose and fell.

She had let go of his shirt. It scared him, because it meant she was drained of power, and too weak to keep a hold on anything. And if she could not even grasp mere fabric, how was she supposed to hang onto life?

He just drew her in closer, blinked away all the tears, and prayed he wasn't watching the last good thing he had slip away.

_Andrea_

She was crouched underneath a bush, ignoring the fang-like thorns that jutted from every branch, plucking off berry after berry.

They were overripe, the starches turned to pure sugar, and thus sweet as syrup. Once she had culled as many as she could, she emerged from the bush, bearing two handfuls of juicy blackberries. Milton's stomach rumbled at the sight.

She began counting them out so she could divvy them up. The number was odd, and she gave the extra berry to Milton, which she refrained from telling him.

She held out his serving, and he gladly accepted the food. The baby food hadn't exactly left him with a sense of satisfaction.

The sun beat down on them, despite the chill in the air, and the dreary morning now seemed favorable.

Just when Milton was about to pop the first berry into his mouth, something distracted him, staying his hand. Andrea glanced over in the direction he was staring, and saw nothing.

"What's wrong?" she asked, a stream of purple juice flowing down her chin. He shushed her, holding out a finger.

"It's almost like a _rumbling_..." he said, his body rigid and tense. "...and it's getting closer."

That's when she heard it.

"Car!" she cried, jumping forward, shoving Milton to the ground. He groaned, white hot pain seizing his ankle. She clasped a hand over his mouth to quiet him, and he gritted his teeth together.

From the obscurity of the undergrowth, she watched intently. A blur of green breezed by. She didn't get a good look at it, but she knew two things were for sure:

Firstly, the vehicle was not from Woodbury, and secondly, she could've sworn she recognized it from somewhere else.

There was only a moment of hesitation; only a moment of determining whether it was just weariness and starvation playing cruel tricks on her, or if she really _did_ know that car.

She decided she couldn't risk letting the chance pass her by. Milton had said that only a miracle could save him. Perhaps this was that miracle.

She bolted. Leapt up from the dirt, and made a mad dash for the road.

As soon as she stepped onto the sun-baked asphalt, there was no going back.

She waved her arms frantically in the air. The car was some ways off, but it had not yet turned the corner. There was still hope. There was still a chance someone would spot her.

She nearly cried out in relief when she realized she truly did recognize the car. It really was them, after all. She hadn't been wrong. For once, she'd been right.

And when the vehicle slowed down, the taillights flashing red and the side door sliding open, she whooped in joy.


	3. Chapter 3

_Beth_

Beth dropped the rag into the basin and let it sink to the bottom. After a few seconds of letting it soak, she hoisted it out and twisted it tightly. The excess water came raining out in muddy brown rivulets. She pressed it lightly to Carol's forehead, dabbing at the dried blood.

A nasty bruise had already taken form: a splotch of lurid reddish and purplish hues, spanning large as an egg, slightly raised and just above her left eyebrow, creeping towards her hairline. It hurt even to look at it, and Beth took great care not to apply much pressure.

And there were more bruises than just that one. Several much nastier, no doubt. Carol's entire body was blemished and battered, sliced and scraped, yet by some miracle, her bones were unbroken.

She was out like a light. Had been for hours. Her breathing was shallow but steady. She was stable, but displayed no signs of waking any time soon. All they could do was keep her cool and comfortable and hope for the best.

Beth wasn't over her father's death. Not in the least. She spent every moment on the verge of tears. Her fingers trembled as she swished the rag around in the basin once more, the water tinted red with blood. She couldn't let herself fall into the same pit of despair she fell into last time. Not if she could help it.

And so she refused to let anyone else take care of Carol. If they relieved her of her one duty, she'd have nowhere to occupy her mind. She knew sooner or later she'd have to confront her grief head-on. Accept it. Find a way to cope with the pain and make peace with it.

But now wasn't the time, and so she took another deep breath and carried on.

_Rick_

The store they were holed up in was dark and cramped. The air was stagnant and thick with rot; a smell they'd all grown sickly accustomed too.

There had only been a few walkers lurking inside, but they'd been especially ripe. Most of the flesh had sloughed from their yellowing bones, thus their movement was greatly hampered. The group hadn't even needed to waste ammo; Michonne's katana slid easily into their softened skulls, like a hot knife through butter.

The real challenge was then _moving_ the bodies. The texture of their skin - the skin that still remained - was something akin to ground beef. Rick's fingers had sunk into pulpous flesh more than once, leaving a band of blackish gore underneath his nail beds. They stacked the corpses up outside, lacking the desire to waste fuel and burn them. And besides, maybe the stench would keep deter the roamers; keep them at bay.

It was a health food store, small and family-owned. The sign that hung outside the door was nigh unrecognizable - the wood was rotten and soggy, and the lettering blurred and fuzzy. The green awning was weighed down with dirty rain water. Two chipped ceramic pots were placed on either side of the door, the plants they once housed long withered.

It probably had been a nice place, once.

Michonne had deemed the interior clear, but Rick wanted to double check. She followed him in, watching his back as he prowled each aisle, hatchet raised and ready. He searched every supply closet, every corner, even the dingy bathroom in the back. He left no stone unturned, yet his weapon remained unsullied.

Michonne had proved herself not just an asset of immense value, but also a loyal and trustworthy friend. He gave her a nod of approval, and could've sworn he'd glimpsed a tiny smile in return, before bidding the others to enter.

The first one to emerge was Carl. He glanced around, unfazed by the wretched smell, before swinging his bag off his shoulder and tossing it down.

Next came Andrea with Judith in her arms. The dozing infant was swaddled in one of Lori's old shirts. It was just a grimy blue flannel that her mother had often worn. It smelled faintly floral. Lori had never faltered to maintain hygiene , and she always managed to have a bottle of shampoo or stick of deodorant tucked away in one of her pockets. The scent worked wonders of Judy's moods.

Milton stumbled in behind Andrea, limping badly. They'd peeled away the blood-soaked wrappings, flushed the wound with water from a bottle and bound his ankle tightly in cleaner fabric, but the pain remained un-blunted.

Rick had been reluctant to allow Milton to merge into their group. He was, after all, the Governor's "butler" (as Daryl had put it) and it was only natural that suspicions would emerge. But even a blind man could see that he was spineless, and Andrea was insistent that he stayed, and so Rick warily accepted him into the fold.

Behind them came Daryl and Carol, the latter of whom was still out cold. The way he carried her reminded Rick of how he'd once carried Lori. She had her arms wrapped around his neck, and her head curled into his chest. It wasn't hard to confuse her unconsciousness with peacefulness.

The hunter's immediate mission was to find somewhere to put her down and let her rest in comfort. He eventually found a corner in the back and enlisted the help of Carl to make a pad of blankets for her to lie on. The tile was cold and hard, and he didn't want to inflict any more pains upon her than she already had.

The last two to pass through the door were Beth and Maggie. Both sisters were a wreck.Nobody could blame them. They'd all suffered, cried and endured agonizing hardships in the past year. But they'd chosen the worst time to grieve. Their fuel supply was diminishing, and they were stranded in some godforsaken ghost town with night approaching far too quickly.

And, needless to add, they were being pursued by more than simply walkers.

They needed every able body, every gun, every pair of eyes and every pair of ears. With Milton immobile, Carol unconscious and Maggie too grief-stricken to function, they were dreadfully vulnerable. If a herd closed in on them, they wouldn't last longer than five minutes.

Beth contributed as well as she could manage. Her behavior starkly contrasted the behavior of the timid girl he'd met on the farm nearly ten months ago. She dried her tears, accepted a hug from Andrea, and promised herself she would mourn properly later, once they were all safe and fed.

And difficult as it was, she did. Rick was proud of her for that. And Carl was, too. The young boy had been fawning over her for ages, and there was a gleam in his eyes every time he gazed her way. It never failed to bring an amused smile to his father's face.

After they situated themselves, the first task they began was collecting supplies. One perk of roosting in a health food store was the majority of dried products: dehydrated apricot slices, crispy apple chips, chewy figs, and so forth. They were all a bit sticky, and probably slightly past their prime, but they would do in a pinch.

They also found natural energy bars, packaged nuts and seeds, jars upon jars of various preserves, plenty of organic peanut butter and a plethora of homeopathic remedies and supplements, among countless other things.

By the time they had salvaged everything they could, night was already fast impending. The evening had sneaked up on them, it seemed, and in the rich rays of the descending sun, Rick could make out at least a dozen advancing silhouettes.

Walkers.

"Daryl," he called, his voice a rough whisper, summoning his right-hand man to the window, pointing toward the lengthening shadows of the roamers.

"Yeah, I know," the hunter rasped. The look on his face of concern, but not surprise. "They're out back, too. Got us on all sides."

Rick pinched at the bridge of his nose as Daryl had seen him do countless times before, and then scrubbed a hand across his face, fingers rubbing at his scruffy chin.

"What do we do?" Rick despaired, glancing around frantically. The turmoil of the day was taking a huge toll on his morale. "We can't fight 'em, an' if they find out we're in here..._shit_..." His voice trailed off, but Daryl was apparently feeling far more enthusiastic about their chances.

"Guess we gotta make sure they don't, then," He resolved, already fishing through the few boxes piled by the door. It seemed they weren't the first people to hunker down in a health food store; someone else had compiled those supplies. Most of the food was long expired, but there were many other things of use to be claimed.

Such as long, thick, wool blankets.

"Right," Rick said to himself, recalling the week or so he spent with Morgan and Duane. They'd used the exact same tactic, and presumably, it had worked for quite a while. And besides, Rick didn't plan on lingering in the store very long anyhow. Ever since he pulled the car into the parking lot, he viewed it more as a resting stop; a place to take a breather for a night or two before continuing on their journey.

He gave the accumulating herd one last measuring stare before getting to work.

_Daryl_

They dimmed the lanterns to a dull orange glow and waited.

The windows were covered, and not even the softest shafts of moonlight could leak in through the tight stitching of the blankets. Not a glimpse of the outside world could be seen, and the suspense was enough to drive a man to insanity.

For a long while, the store was gripped by a smothering hush; the kind that makes your ears throb. Makes you yearn for a single sound. But then, they heard them.

Throaty groans, scraggy growls, listless moans. Combined, it had a nails-on-a-chalkboard affect on the group.

First, the noises was distant, and if you clasped your hands over your ears and squeezed you eyes shut very, very tight, you could ignore it. But as they descended upon the store, the awful sounds got louder, until they were impossible to shut out.

Maggie was crunched up a corner. The look on her face could only be described as blank. There was a hollowness in her eyes, as if she'd wept all her tears and had none left. She wasn't sleeping, but she wasn't fully awake either. She seemed to pay no mind to the walkers just outside.

He swallowed a sigh, tearing his gaze from Maggie, making his way to the opposite end of the room, stepping over shards of glass and pools of congealing blood. Andrea was huddled up in a cranny, a small blue blanket curled around her shoulders, rocking Judy in her arms. A chubby little fist was clutching her finger. She'd gathered her frazzled hair into a messy ponytail to keep a certain someone from yanking on any stray locks. She gave Daryl a weary smile as he passed by.

Several feet away, Milton struggled to doze off. They'd seen that his ankle was cared for, and they'd given him a few pills to abate the pain. He was visibly on edge, and every little noise sent him flinching. Daryl didn't care much for Milton. He reminded him vaguely of a weasel with glasses.

Rick sat with Carl, the two of them conversing in quiet voices, whilst the younger Grimes steered his blade around the rim of a can, driving it in and out in a rhythmic motion. Finally he was able to pry off the metal lid. He dipped his fingers into the contents, fishing around for a slice of peach.

When he finally reached Beth, she was still tending to Carol. Her lanky frame was hunched over a faded pink basin, bony shoulders poking out underneath the thin fabric. The water had been warm from the start, little dead gnats swirling on the surface, and there wasn't a speck of blood left on Carol's skin, but it kept Beth and her thoughts focused elsewhere.

It kept the pain at bay, and Daryl understood.

He crouched down beside her, noticing the dried tears on her cheeks, the puffiness of her eyes, the locks of sweaty blonde hair dangling in her face. She was a wreck. All of them were.

Carol was still unresponsive. She didn't even stir. The subtle rise and fall of her breast was the only indicator that there was any life left in her at all.

She was so different looking, he thought. The pallor of her skin made it seem as if some inner flame had been extinguished, and all warmth had fled her body. There were beads of moisture on her brow, and even though he knew they were from the water, it didn't stop him from considering the possibility of fever.

Her fate was a pendulum swaying between life and death, and there was nothing he could do. She was helpless and vulnerable, lacking even the strength to even take deep breaths. She was a complete opposite of the Carol he grew to know so well.

Grew to _love _so much.

"She hasn't changed," Beth informed mournfully, pressing the back of her hand to Carol's forehead. "She's not runnin' a fever, an' her breathin's steady, but...nothin'. Hasn't even moved."

"She'll be alright," Daryl promised, trying to sound sure, but unable to mask the doubt in his voice. And judging by the darkness in her eyes, she was feeling that same pit of hopelessness in her stomach that he felt.

"Go eat somethin'," He told her, motioning over to where Rick and Carl plucked cubes of fruit out of sickly sweet syrup. "I'll watch 'er."

Beth glanced over at Carol, chewing her lip, and there was a moment of tentativeness, as if she thought the woman's life was tethered to her presence, but she soon surrendered to her rumbling belly and watering mouth. Daryl watched as she walked off to join Rick and Carl, hugging herself tightly, suppressing a shiver.

But after that, he didn't really know what to do. Carol was out cold, motionless and feeble, and Daryl just couldn't find it in him to resign himself to sleep. He was spent and exhausted and a slow-burning ache had worked its way into every muscle in his body, but he couldn't sleep.

If something happened...if they were _attacked... _

No. He couldn't sleep. He _wouldn't_ sleep.

But as time dragged by, minutes melted into hours, and his eyelids grew heavier and heavier, 'til they felt like lead, and it was a struggle to even keep them open but a crack.

And finally, after what seemed a millennium of clinging just barely to consciousness, the ground crumbled underneath him and he was sent plunging into a serene darkness.

They next time he awoke, he was lunging for his crossbow.

_Carol_

Her eyes snapped open and she was assailed by searing pain. It was as if her bones were made of glass, and they were all shattered and crushed, the fragments jabbing through her skin. Her head was throbbing so hard she could hear the pounding in her ears and feel it in her eyes. There was a freezing hand clutching her chest, digging its nails deep into her heart.

The sound she made was a hybrid between a sharp breath being let in and a sharp breath being let out. A lance of white-hot pain speared her lungs and her throat clenched up, severing her breath. Her chest arched, her back rising up off the cold, hard ground.

And then someone clasped their hand over her mouth, practically smashing her lips against her teeth, and she could vaguely taste dirt and blood and salty sweat. Her arms were pinned to her sides, restricting her movement, hindering her thrashes. But somehow, the grip was strangely gentle, as if whoever was restraining her was taking caution not to harm her.

Her fingers stretched and strained for the gun at her hip, but it was either gone or just barely out of reach.

Dark lumps on the ground rose to tall, shadowy figures. Most held back. One approached. The others whispered harshly to one another. She couldn't tell what they were saying. Though she battled to stay calm and appear collected and unafraid, there was fear coursing through her body and she could hear nothing over the sound of her blood rushing through her veins.

She'd been taken captive by Woodbury. That was her initial thought. The last lucid event that she could recall was a wall obliterating before her eyes, chunks of concrete raining down on her head. After that, the Governor and his men must've infiltrated the prison, stumbled across her, and carried her off to be interrogated and tortured just like Glenn and Maggie had been, until she either screamed the answers or begged for death.

The stranger knelt down, cautiously holding a hand, and used the back of his palm to test her temperature, his touch surprisingly tender. Her muffled protests died away.

And then he spoke.

"Thank God," he breathed, and there was a familiarity in his voice that struck her instantly. All around the room, relieved sighs were let out. She furrowed her brow, eyes narrowing as they adjusted to the blackness, and the lines and curves and angles of his face became clearer and clearer. She quit wiggling and the hand over her mouth fell away. Whoever was constraining her released their hold, but kept a grip on her shoulders to support her wobbly body.

"Rick?"

He responded by placing a finger to his lips to convey the need for silence, but nodded all the same. A wave of relief washed over her, and soon she could identify all the other figures as well. Behind Rick, Beth advanced timidly, looking as if she was doing all she could to resist rushing forth and wrapping her arms around Carol in a constricting hug. Thankfully, she didn't.

And Daryl...she didn't need to see him to know where he was. There must've been a guardian angel on her shoulders, she thought. That, or she had the greatest luck of all time. But it didn't take long for her happiness to sour and turn to bemusement.

"What happened?" She asked, her tone hushed. Rick opened his mouth to speak, but his reply never got any farther than that.

_Daryl_

The walkers had heard them. Somehow, they had. And now, aware of the presence of fresh meat, they had thronged together into a ravenous, fearsome herd. A mob assembled at each window, smashing at the panes with their fists, famished and desperate. A half a dozen or so were gathered by the main entrance, scratching at the glass door. And to add fuel to the fire, Judith's wailing began.

Every exit was blocked. They were trapped inside. And the glass wouldn't hold forever. Michonne peeled back a curtain, glancing outside, estimating the size of their threat. She merely shook her head, her expression speaking volumes.

There were too many of them.

They were screwed.

Beth choked back a sob, and Carl donned a brave face for her sake as he talked her through it, encouraging her that they'd be fine; that his dad would get them out of there. Andrea tried in vain to soothe Judy, but nothing seemed to work.

No _way_ Daryl was letting these people die. No way in hell.

He hoisted Carol up, slinging her arm over his shoulder. She slouched into him, her legs feeling more like jell-o than flesh and bone, and whimpered sharply when he moved.

"Hey," he said, stopping for a moment 'til her pain passed. "Careful now. I gotcha."

"Daryl, what the hell are we gonna do?" She asked as he helped her take small, cautious steps. They avoided applying any pressure to her left foot. "They got us cornered. We can't run an' we can't fight." There was a lack of hope evident in her tone, and he hated it. Hated that she was scared. Hated even more that she had a reason to be. Lately, life had delivered one blow after another. He was caught in a string of bad events, each worse than the next, dating all the way back to the day Lori and T-Dog died; the day Carol went missing.

Then Glenn and Maggie were abducted. Then the shootout that claimed Axel's life. Then he lost Merle. And now he'd lost his home, and he was on the brink of losing the rest of his family, too.

But that wasn't going to happen. Not on Daryl's watch.

"Don't you worry 'bout a thing. You're gonna be jus' fine. We all are. I ain't gonna let you die. Tha's a promise."


	4. Chapter 4

_Carl_

There were many things Carl absolutely hated about the storage closet.

Firstly, it was dark. The only thing keeping them all from blending into the shadows was a single dying lantern in the center of the room, flickering away, its orange light contorting everyone's features.

And it stank, too. The sickly sweet odor of mildew thickened the air, making it impossible to take a satisfying breath. Furry patches of mold grew on every wall. The lighting fixture on the ceiling was destroyed, and sharp glass was scattered across the floor, crunching under his feet.

He paced by the door. He was only able to take a few steps before being forced to turn around, but it was at least some sort of outlet for his pent up frustration; a frustration that he could feel swelling by the second. His fingers itched to squeeze a trigger. His body yearned for a rush of adrenaline.

But instead, he was cooped up inside some closet, babysitting while his dad and the others took care of the walkers outside. It wasn't _fair. _Carl could fight and contribute and kill as well as anyone else. Why couldn't _he_ help?

Along with Judith, Maggie had also opted to stay behind. She didn't exactly feel up to slaughtering re-animated corpses. She hadn't slept in two days, nearly three. Beth volunteered to stand by her sister's side, and though Carl could tell she was growing restless, he also knew she wanted to be there to comfort Maggie. Carol and Milton were injured, and couldn't be blamed. They were hindered. It was understandable. And Judy...well, she was just a chubby baby.

But _Carl?_

Carl had no reason to be kept locked away. At least, not in his ind. He wasn't weak, he wasn't wounded, he wasn't numb with grief. He was healthy, he was strong, he was _ready._ But his father had refused to even _consider_ letting him tag along, and that made Carl's blood simmer to a boil.

"Don't worry. I'm sure your dad's fine."

Carol's strained, gravelly voice severed the silence, and Carl's fingers curled up stiffly for a brief moment.

"I'm not _worried_."

_Carol_

Carol was unsurprised, but her mouth twisted into a frown all the same. She understood what Carl meant: he wasn't concerned for Rick, he was pissed at him. And it wasn't entirely his fault, either. He was nearly fourteen. His hormones were probably going haywire. End of the world or no, teenage resentment was to be expected.

As a matter of fact, Carol had been much the same way when she was his age. She loathed any rule she was expected to abide to, and she groused about anything she could (and loudly, too), even the seemingly insignificant things: her father whistling while she was trying to concentrate, her mother nagging her to finish her homework, her little brother teasing her about boys she liked. The list went on, and on, and on.

_"She's certainly quite a spitfire."_

That's how her principal had phrased it to her parents one afternoon.

But in hindsight, it was all so meaningless. Chores, curfew, movie restrictions, if Davy Shultz thought she was cute or not. All those problems she spent so long fussing over, and in the end, they didn't make a damn bit of difference.

Not a damn bit.

_Andrea_

In theory, it was very simple. They'd chuck a spare fuse out a side window, draw the walkers in the back away from the door, slip out, and kill as many sons-of-bitches as they possibly could. Once they'd cleared a safe path to the car for the others, they could all pile in and drive the hell away.

In actuality, it was significantly more difficult.

Rick, Daryl, Andrea and Michonne huddled in a circle, fleshing out their plan in muted voices.

"We gotta stay in pairs," Daryl explained, eyes trained on Rick, "What worked when we took the prison ain't gonna work here. Two of us'll attack from each side. We keep 'em in the middle, don't let 'em surround us, an' the others've got a straight shot to the car."

"Then what?"

Those were Michonne's first two words of the evening, and yet there were so many shades of doubt in her tone. Daryl's plan was shaping up to be more of a suicide mission than just a simply inconvenient task. Their lives would be balanced on the edge of a razor - _all_ of their lives. One little mistake - no matter how meager it may seem- could bring death upon all of them.

It was a risk, but what other choice did they have? As enticing as waiting the herd out seemed, the chance of failure was even higher. The last thing they needed was a horde of walkers at their front door and no escape route. Sitting tight wasn't going to suffice. Not if they wanted to live to see another dawn.

"Then they'll get in the damn car an' we'll get the hell outta this place."

Daryl's reply came almost curt, as if the answer was blindingly obvious. Michonne looked unconvinced, yet she failed to retort. She really hadn't been talkative lately - at least, not since Andrea and Milton had arrived. The only person Michonne had carried a solid conversation with recently was Rick.

Daryl scanned their faces for hues of uncertainty, and Andrea cast her eyes away quickly. His shoulders sagged and he huffed, almost sounding insulted.

"Dammit. I talked this over with Carol. She's got it."

"Carol can barely walk," Rick pointed out. "Milton either. Someone slips up - "

"We can't jus' sit here prayin' we ain't mauled to death by mornin'," Daryl snapped, slicing his friend's sentence short. "We ain't got another choice, an' we ain't got any more time, so y'all might as well jus' trust me. Now come on, we gotta make this fast."

_Carol_

The world seem to hold its breath, and the tension in the air was smothering. Every tendon in her body was strung and tight and every little noise made her flinch. She strained her ears, listening, for something, for anything.

Or maybe for nothing at all.

She didn't know any more.

A gunshot. That's what Daryl told her to listen for. The first gunshot. And once she heard it, she'd been instructed to count to sixty, and then again, and then eight more times. And only after ten minutes had come and gone was she permitted to leave that storage closet.

And once she left, there was no returning.

Once she left, she had to run. Had to lead the others to the car; to safety. Get everyone inside. That's what Daryl told her to do. Get everyone inside, but keep the doors open - wide open. Appoint two people to lodge a bullet in the brain of every walker they could.

Honk. Just one time. Don't risk a second. He'd stop whatever he was doing and run. That's what Daryl promised. Rick would too, and Andrea, and Michonne. They'd leap into the back of the car and whoever was in the driver's seat would squash their foot down on the gas petal and they wouldn't lift it until the health food store was a distant memory.

She'd discussed it with the others, but the silence almost seemed more bearable unbroken. It was so quiet, the doubt in her voice stood out like a red comet slashing through the black sky. The fear, the pain, the worry...it became a thousand times more obvious, and she hated it. She hated not being able to bury the concern and confusion and appear calm and collected.

Everyone knew that if even Carol was despairing, things must be very dire indeed.

The first shot sounded, and the timer in her head began its frantic ticking.

_Daryl_

Rick. It was Rick who'd fired. He'd taken the left side with Michonne, the latter of whom was equipped only with her signature katana. Andrea was with Daryl, her shoulder pressed up against his, and her finger hadn't even grazed her trigger yet. Daryl hadn't even drawn his pistol, which eliminated him.

So that left Rick, and Daryl's stomach dropped, an instinct to protect surging through his veins. Rick had fired, and that meant he had approximately five seconds before every geek in the area was on him like white on rice.

Playing out like a prophecy, all the walkers shifted in perfect sync with each other, alerted. As their paces hastened, fueled by rekindled hunger, their steps grew more and more crooked. Rotten legs tangling, they stumbled and tripped and scrambled in the direction of the gunshot. There were more than Daryl had anticipated. Far more than Rick and Michonne could handle alone. Giving the signal to Andrea, they struck.

Andrea bolted ahead of him, her aim sure and steady, picking off the nearest walkers, the ones who posed the greatest threat, while Daryl focused on taking full advantage of his quiet crossbow. The bolts glided through the air as if they had wings, silent as a bird, lethal as a dragon.

Their shiny metal tips sunk easily into mushy flesh, and most of the roamers didn't even have a chance to turn around before they were toppling down onto the concrete. Sticky pools of reddish-black bloomed under their fallen bodies.

Through a newly forged gap, Daryl could spot the glint of moonlight on a blade as Michonne's katana slashed and hacked through the gathering mist. With each sweeping arc and piercing stab came another spray of old blood.

She had Rick's back, Daryl knew, but that didn't stop him from struggling to restrain himself from rushing over to his friend's side anyway. It had become customary for him to keep one eye on Rick, and sometimes both, but now, the other man's safety was entirely out of his hands. Not that the former cop needed a protector; rather, it was ingrained in Daryl's nature to protect.

He reassured himself that Rick would manage, and Michonne and Andrea too, and before long, they could leave this godforsaken nightmare in the dust and never glance back.

_Beth_

Carol rose shakily to her feet, hands clutching at the wall for support, fingernails digging and scratching at the mortar. She wobbled a bit, but didn't fall. Failure wasn't an option. She had only seven minutes to get her sea legs back. Once those seven minutes were up, they'd have to move, regardless of whether or not Carol could.

Carl had ceased his pacing, instead concluding to sulk in a corner, clutching his knees to his chin, his hat obscuring the frustration in his eyes, replacing it with murky shadows.

Beth had given up trying to get through to Maggie. It was impossible. Maggie was a brick wall, and Beth was trying to chisel through with a plastic spoon. Nothing reached her mind. No words of warmth, no comforting prayer, no begging or pleading could crack through her sister's shell.

She was a husk of the girl Beth had once admired, and that terrified the younger blonde to no end. She was surrounded by people who loved her - a rag-tag group of strangers who had quickly become her family - yet she'd never felt so alone.

When her mother died - the second time, not the first - she'd at least had her father and Jimmy and Patricia and an older sis who walked and talked to turn to. She could at least curl up in a familiar bed, bury herself in fresh sheets, and pretend the rest of the world didn't exist.

Now she had none of that, only subtract a house and add fifty ravenous walkers. Not to mention the imminent threat of an agonizing death looming over her head.

Carol placed one foot in front of the other and walked, very gingerly, from one end of the closet to the other. She smiled at her achievement.

"Not so bad for starters," she commented aloud, more to herself than to the others. "Milton, how about you? Can you walk?"

From his spot of seclusion, Milton shifted stiffly, the conditions wreaking havoc on his bones and joints.

"I can," he verified, rolling up the bottom of one pant leg, brandishing his wound. Truthfully, Carol had suffered injuries far more severe and complained far less. "But it's still quite sore."

"You'd be surprised how much pain you can stand when you're runnin' for your life," Carol assured, gravely serious. "What about Maggie?"

Had Beth been a dog, her ears would've twitched at the name - but not in a happy, eager way.

"Maggie's fine," she announced firmly, her tone almost bitter. "There's nothin' wrong with her. She's jus' stubborn as a mule."

Carol unfolded her arms, making her way to the corner where the grieving brunette hugged her knees. Carol's legs were beginning to feel more and more solid and steady, her gait becoming surer, more balanced. She crouched down next to Maggie and carefully pushed a lock of dirty brown hair away from her face, tucking it neatly behind her ear.

It really was ironic how Beth lacked understanding of her sister's situation. She of all people should know what it's like to be ripped apart by someone's absence. But Carol kept that thought filed away, never to be spoken aloud.

Actually, looking back, Maggie had reacted quite the same way when her Beth was in bereavement.

"I'm so sorry," Carol breathed, wishing there existed a word to truly express her sympathies. But alas, none could. No jumble of letters could spell out how deeply, deeply sorry she really was. Besides missing Glenn terribly, she also felt partly responsible for his death. _If you'da jus' paid attention for once, _Ed's ever-present voice growled in her mind, _he'd still be here!_

Maggie didn't respond, but she was listening. Her eyes acquired a tell-tale glassy sheen, her green irises brightened instantly, and only seconds later, the first tear rolled languidly down her cheek. Carol brushed it away with her thumb. And the next one. And the next.

Finally, after nigh on three days of utter soundlessness, Maggie spoke.

"Why?"

Her voice was quiet and thin, lacking its normal strength and fervor entirely. And it was only one word; one syllable. But it conveyed so much more. Maggie was neck-deep in dark, smothering grief, and if they didn't pull her out soon, it'd swallow her up whole.

"I...I was with him in the tombs," Carol admitted, her hand falling away limply, her gaze wandering as she mustered up a hazy memory. "I should've done somethin'."

"He was hell-bent on killin' the Governor," Maggie said, as if Carol's confession hadn't registered in her brain. "I tried to stop 'im, but..."

Her voice trailed off as the tears returned full-force, cascading over her sunken cheekbones, dripping off her chin. Carol hushed her, but Maggie just shook her head, rambling on in between sobs. The girl had reached her shattering point, and her emotions had ruptured.

Maybe this was healthy. Maybe Maggie _needed_ to scream and wail and damn God for his injustice.

But her timing...it was awful, to say the least. In five minutes, they had to be ready to run for their lives, and Maggie was having a mental breakdown. A year and a half ago, she would've been admitted into therapy to begin a healing process. But now, she was expected to suck it up and move on. That's what surviving in their world entailed.

There wasn't any room for love. For attachments.

Carol had always managed to keep the flame of hope alive. No matter how much it dimmed, the embers never ceased their glowing. But recent events had planted seeds of doubt in her mind, and they were growing quickly.

Maybe there really wasno way out of this hell.

**A/N: Good lord, this took me forever. I've been really into Supernatural and have spent the last month watching it non-stop. I haven't done much of anything else. Plus I had some Tumblr prompts to fill. I originally planned this chap to be much longer and cover a lot more, but it just didn't work, so I'm just going to upload this now, apologize for an incredibly lame and dry fourth chapter, and promise a MUCH better fifth chapter! I have a lot of good stuff planned, I swear, so stick with me! And thank you SO much for the wonderful, wonderful support! The amount of follows I've gotten is crazy (for me, at least) and the reviews are such a delight to read. Enjoy! **


	5. Chapter 5

**NOTICE: I am REALLY struggling right now, so sorry for all the false updates! I tweaked this chapter and tried to replace it with the new document, but it wasn't working so I just went ahead and re-uploaded. Then THAT didn't work and it STILL didn't change and I freaked out and now I have to re-upload AGAIN. Trust me, it sucks pretty hard for me too. I don't normally condone re-uploading things, so I do apologize. No new chapter, just a slightly edited version of an old one :/ Sorry! **

_Carol_

Looking back, she had no idea how they'd made it out unscathed and intact.

Looking back, she had no idea how they'd made it out at all.

But she supposed that didn't really matter, did it? They were all alive, all breathing, all spared from harm. Daryl, Rick, Michonne and Andrea had done a remarkable job of securing safe passage, and although the car was cramped, stuffy and reeked of stale sweat and dirt, it was a hell of a lot more comfortable than the supply closet.

The gravel beneath them crunched underneath the wheels, the vehicle jolting whenever the tires rolled over a rock or a stone. Beth's head rested in the juncture of Carol's shoulders and neck, her breathing easy, her mind settled and submerged in sleep.

Only hours before, the young blonde had driven them out of a deep rut of danger. She claimed to have been on the verge of acquiring an official driver's license when the apocalypse swooped in. She did fine enough behind the wheel. After a while, though, once they were out of immediate danger, she willingly surrendered the seat to Michonne.

Maggie was far from in good spirits, but at least she had displayed some desire to live when she made a run for her life. Or maybe she simply didn't want to be torn limb from limb, and death itself had nothing to do with it.

Another meaningless thing, really. Did it truly make a difference why Maggie dashed across that pavement? Because in the end, she did. _That_ was what made the difference.

Andrea had Judith in the crook of her arm, and Milton was, as always, within close proximity. Judy snored softly, tiny pink fingers twitching into a fist every once in a while.

Rick was perched in the passenger's seat, seemingly unaware of his rigid spine and stiff posture. He stared tensely out the window, gaze unwavering, keeping a tight grip on the rifle in his lap. Beside him, Michonne steered the car down a dirt road, the spindly shadows of the sinewy trees cast across the path.

Carl whittled a stick in brooding silence. There was crap littered all about the car, from dried leaves to loose ammo rounds. He just stared intently as he ran the blade along the length of the wood, honing the tip to a sharp taper.

And Daryl sat opposite of Carol, somber but alert, one hand always resting on his crossbow. He was restless, she knew. His exhaustion had been buried under many layers of anxiety, but he couldn't hide the dark circles underneath his glazed, red-rimmed eyes.

It hurt to look at him, and the longer she did so, the more uncomfortable she grew. She wished there was some way to help him, but she knew he'd deflect any attempt she put out.

After not much longer, Carol lacked the willpower and the strength to hold her eyes open. She yielded, resigning herself to sleep, and wasn't even awake long enough to feel her head fall back against the car door.

_Daryl_

Carol's breast rose and fell in a rhythmic, almost hypnotizing pattern. She'd been out almost an hour. Beth, even longer. Even Rick's head drooped every now and again.

The sun had risen now, bathing the land in pale gold light, and the grassy fields they passed glittered with frost. They had just endured the first frigid night of many to come.

Initially, Daryl had had his poncho to keep him warm, the thick, scratchy fabric acting like a shield against the biting blade of the cold. But after Carol had fallen asleep and he saw the way she hugged her body even in dream, he'd removed it and wrapped it around her shoulders instead. To his satisfaction, she was visibly more comfortable after that.

Daryl was on the verge of nodding off when, out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a familiar flash of brown peeking through the trees. The windows were streaked with dirt and speckled with dried blood, and at the speed they were traveling, there was no way to know for sure, but he felt a jolt of recognition nonetheless.

It was a sign. No, not an indication of good luck from above, but an actual wooden sign, large and weather-beaten, nailed to a thick, sturdy bough. Withering ivy mostly obscured the letters, but it was identifiable enough.

If there hadn't been a solid roof over his head, Daryl probably would've leapt to his feet.

"Stop!" he cried, suddenly very awake. His voice, loud and gruff, startled the slumbering bodies around him. Their reflexes were a step ahead of their minds. Carol awoke, startled, and flung the poncho off in a moment of complete and utter confusion. Baby Judith roused with a squeal of displeasure. Rick jolted, nearly shattering the window with his rifle.

"Stop!" Daryl urged again, and the car came to a screeching halt. The unprepared backseat passengers were jerked violently forward. They hadn't even come to a full standstill when Daryl flung the side door open, hopping out without a second thought. Rick hurried to chase after him.

The area was free of walkers, but Rick kept a hand on his holstered pistol regardless. It had never hurt anyone to take a few extra precautions, especially in such an unpredictable world.

Daryl stood openly out in the middle of the road, gazing up towards, but not at, the sky. He had one hand up to block the harsh morning sun from his eyes.

Rick approached him, his groggy state making him much more irate than usual.

"You mind explainin' to me what the hell that was about?" he questioned sharply, lining himself up with Daryl, trying to see whatever it was that his friend saw. But all Rick could perceive was an old, dingy sign with the words 'Mosquito Lake' painted across the surface in fading red. Nothing spectacular or out of the ordinary; just another lost aspect of what the world used to be.

"Mosquito Lake," Daryl read, verifying that that was, in fact, what had prompted his sudden urgency. By this time, Michonne had sauntered over to join them, her trusty katana slung over her shoulder as always. Her trademark scowl had made a return, it seemed. "Merle's buddy Skeeter worked at that place," he went on to explain. "Bit of an asshole, but he an' Merle were thick as thieves. If he's still holdin' up, he'll let us in. It's just off the road a ways."

Rick and Michonne were hardly sold.

"Daryl, if he's still alive, he ain't here," Rick tried to reason, "He's either dead, or he's some place else."

"You dunno Skeeter," Daryl argued, persistent. "Son of a bitch had his whole basement stocked full of shit for the apocalypse. Guns, food, water. You name it, he had it. Ain't no way he left this place."

"Reading about survival in a book and actually surviving are two completely different things." Michonne pointed out sagely, and Daryl narrowed his eyes. Normally, the two of them got along perfectly fine, but they were both currently spent and weary. Add disagrement and you've got the perfect formula for conflict.

Rick didn't want the issue to trigger any unnecessary strains on his and Daryl's relationship, but he was in agreement with Michonne. Daryl's plan for escaping the store had worked, insane as it was, but the circumstances had been completely different. They were cornered then. They hadn't had choices.

Rick sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as he contemplated, as was customary. A door slammed somewhere behind him.

"Alright then," Daryl said, a detectable filter of skepticism in his voice, "You got a better idea?"

Michonne nodded stiffly.

"I say we head for the coast. That was my plan all along. Andrea's too, for a while. Find an island. Stabilize. Build a community."

Daryl opened his mouth to retort, but when he spotted Carol making her way towards them, hands shoved deep into the pockets of her coat and gaze cast down at her feet, the words froze in his throat. He backed down, not wanting to make a scene in front of her. She needed to relax more than anyone else.

"What's going on here?" she asked when she was within earshot. Her tone of voice suggested she already partly knew.

"Daryl's got a mindset to get us all killed," Michonne replied swiftly, hand on her hip, stare incredulous and staunch.

"Dammit, ain't anybody listenin' to me?" Daryl groaned, "If anyone can survive this, it's Skeeter."

Unsurprisingly, neither of them had succeeded in answering Carol's question.

"Alright, enough," Rick cut in, trying to keep a handle on things (as always) but yet barely to function himself. The starvation, the lack of sleep, the wear and tear of constant stress and anxiety...it was all taking its toll, to say the very least. "I think we've established where you two stand on this."

"And where do you stand, Rick?" Carol asked, still not entirely enlightened but able to piece together a rough gist of the situation.

Rick thought silently for a few moments.

"I don't know."

Daryl huffed, agitated, and Carol's eyes shifted to him.

"Can I speak with you?" She asked, arms folded, squinting into the sun. "Alone?"

Daryl's eyes shifted over to Rick, almost as if to ask for permission, only not quite.

"Go ahead," Rick confirmed, turning away. Michonne followed, eager to converse with him without the influence of Daryl present. She trusted Daryl's judgement enough, but she wasn't stupid, and could distinguish a good crazy idea from a bad crazy idea.

Carol approached Daryl. She was worn out and starving beyond the point of being able to mask it. She looked like she'd aged five years in three days. But a decent night's sleep and a fulfilling meal could change that. Mosquito Lake had cabins and bunks, and Skeeter would have plenty of food. Daryl was sure of it.

Still, she was up and moving, and that had to count for something.

"How're you feelin'?" Daryl asked, dancing around the subject at hand. She shrugged, her hands sliding out of her pockets so she could rub them together quickly. There was no snowfall yet, but the trees were already bare skeletons and a crust of brittle brown leaves covered the ground. The skies were mostly slate grey, and it seemed the sun was having a harder and harder time penetrating the clouds.

Essentially, winter had arrived, it was freezing, and they were all miserable.

"I've been better," she said, managing to smile through her fatigue. "A little sore, but thanks to you, I'm alive, aren't I?"

Daryl couldn't control the rosy hue that flooded his cheeks, but maybe he could blame it on the cold.

"Ain't gotta thank me for nothin'," he averted the compliment, as always. He would've rescued anyone, after all. Perhaps he had picked up a habit of being Carol's knight in shining armor, but hey, it wasn't his fault bad circumstances had a magnetic attraction to the poor woman.

It just seemed that, whenever things got ugly, Carol always found herself smack in the eye of the hurricane.

Actually, her resilience and ability to bounce back were quite alluring. She was stronger than her thin arms and slender frame lead on. He liked that. Not, of course, that he'd ever admit it. Ever.

"Of _course_ I'm going to thank you. But that's not why I'm here," she stuck out her hand, wiggling her fingers, "Mind fillin' me in on what's goin' on?"

He stared at her hand, dumb-founded. It took a good few seconds for it to register with him that she meant for him to take it.

She must've picked up on his hesitance, though, because she was quick to dull the awkwardness of the moment by instead coiling her fingers around his wrist. Maybe then it would seem less couple-y.

With the help of an encouraging tug, she lead him down the road.

_Michonne_

"You can't tell me you're thinking about this."

Rick sighed, scrubbing a hand over his stubbly chin. Actually, the state of his facial hair had progressed a bit beyond stubble. Before the outbreak, he hated the thought of having a beard, or any kind of scruff at all. Even five o'clock shadow had irked him. Now, his ragged appearance only seemed befitting.

"I am," he told her, and she picked up on how stretched his voice sounded. "I have to."

"Have you _seen _everyone lately?" Michonne asked harshly. A ways up the road, a walker stumbled out from the treeline. They paid it no mind, but she kept her fingers curled around the hilt of her katana anyway. "We're not in any shape to take a risk. Not like this one."

Michonne was right, but only partly. It was true enough that everyone in their group was in no position to fight, but if Daryl's presumptions were accurate, and this 'Skeeter' man was alive and kicking and holed up at some cabin at Mosquito Lake, maybe that was exactly what they needed.

But if Daryl was wrong, and Mosquito Lake was nothing but a large plot of land swarming with roamers, they'd be screwed the second they step foot on site. The bigger the area, the denser the walker population. That was just a basic rule of thumb.

"I know," he mumbled, the mixture of stress and sleep depravation rendering him barely coherent, "It's just...maybe we should trust him. He got us out last night."

Michonne placed a gloved hand on her hip. "That was different."

"Daryl's got a good instinct."

_Maybe so, but are you willing to bet your children's lives on it? _Michonne thought bitterly, but the icy reply never came into creation, for just then she spotted Daryl and Carol strolling towards them, looking oddly decided.

"Carol an' I are gonna go scope it out. If it's safe, we'll come back an' getcha," his gaze shifted to Michonne, "An' if it ain't, we'll come back an' we can move on."

Rick frowned, clearly unimpressed.

"Just the two of you?" He shook his head thoughtfully. "I dunno. That could be askin' for trouble."

"Two people're faster'n ten," Daryl pointed out.

"Things go south, we can get outta there quick," Carol added. Rick was throwing her unsure glances, as if to ask silently if she was simply going along with the plan for Daryl's sake. In actuality, _she_ had been the one to propose the idea - _and_ the one to coax Daryl into it. "Don't look at me like that, Rick. I'm fine. Daryl's the one you gotta worry 'bout. But it's alright. I can protect 'im."

She gave the man beside her an impish nudge in the ribs, and she could've sworn there was a tiny grin playing about his lips.

_Daryl_

They trudged through the woods in silence.

A thin curtain of mist hung about the tree trunks, and the dead leaves crunched loudly under their boots. The air smelled fresher than it'd smelled in a long time, the winds scented with pine and dew. It really put into perspective just how much he truly reeked.

The surrounding area was mostly free of walkers, but they kept their weapons at the ready. He had his stealthy crossbow, and she wielded a hefty machete. Bright spears of light glinted off the metal blade. There was a crimson crust at the tip, but most of the gore had been scoured away. That thing looked like it weighed more than she did, yet she swung it with striking force.

There was certainly more to Carol Peletier than met the eye.

For instance, underneath her warmth and good-naturedness, there was a fiery red undercurrent that flowed within her veins. She had a sharp tongue at her disposal. But, for the most part, she was too kind to utilize it and kept it sheathed.

The few times she had nicked him, though, he hadn't minded much. He was quite fond of her crisp wit and lively spirit (another thing he would never admit), and the thought of her being repressed for so long made his blood simmer.

"So, tell me about this Skeeter."

Carol's voice cut the silence like a scalpel, for which Daryl was thankful. He was starting to get too lost in his own mind, and kept bumping into things he thought he'd safely stowed away - such as how much he enjoyed Carol's sassiness.

"Ain't much to tell," he admitted. "Merle knew 'im best. Used to come out here all the time to hang out with 'im. Dragged me along a few times. Never did care for Skeeter much, but he always had plenty of beer, so..."

Daryl's voice trailed off. He thought he'd heard a rustle in the undergrowth, but it was hard to see much past the screen of mist.

"Your brother..." Carol began hesitantly, almost as if she were testing how the weight of the words fell on his shoulders, "...You're not holdin' up so well, are you?"

It was less of a question and more of a statement. It was blindly oblivious that Merle's death had shattered the man to shards. He was trying so very hard to gather up the fragments and re-construct his former self, but he was truly just a bundle of sticks being held together with a bit of tape and string. Daryl shrugged half-heartedly.

"Does it matter?" He rasped, suddenly sullen. She glanced up at him, brow furrowed.

"Of _course_."

He swallowed a bubble of sarcastic laughter.

"No, it don't. He's dead either way."

"Maybe...but Daryl, I see it in your eyes every time I look at you..."

"See what?" He interrupted abruptly, suddenly harsh and rigid, like a spooked cat arching its back, hissing a warning. Carol's lips pressed into a tight, thin line. Bickering wasn't how she liked to spend her rare one-on-one moments with Daryl.

"Hatred," she specified calmly, "At the world," - She paused a moment - "At yourself."

The noise he made was somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. He avoided settling his gaze anywhere near her.

"Ain't that always been the case," he muttered, almost as if he meant for it to slip past her. But it didn't. She swallowed hard, wanting to assure him that he had not a thing in the world to hate himself for, and that he was a wonderful man who was far harder on himself than he ever needed to be, but never got the chance. Just then, Daryl spotted the hazy silhouette of a walker shambling through the haze. When Carol caught sight of it, her machete raised on instinct, but he beckoned for her to lower it.

The bolt cruised through the fog, a streak of red and black, and lodged itself firmly in the walker's eye. There was a thump and the flutter of leaves when the corpse hit the ground.

"Good shot," Carol said, trying to ease the tension that had formed between them. She gave him a pat on the back. Her hand lingered. He responded with a nod before changing the subject.

"Come on, we're almos' there."

.:|:.

The entrance to Mosquito Lake was marked by a large, tacky welcome sign that was nailed crookedly to a post. The letters were thick and faded green, and there was a crude representation of a mosquito painted underneath the curfew hours.

"There aren't any walkers around here," Carol observed, absorbing the scenery. The evergreens were full and bushy and shivered in the winds; the pale outline of mountains could be seen in the very distance. The sun had taken refuge behind a cloud. Maybe for the better. The last summer had been brutal, the heat inescapable, sweltering, stifling. The crisper weather was a change she'd greet with open arms. Bitter winter nights, not so much.

"Weren't too many people livin' up here," Daryl said simply. "But those that did, they had their guns, an' plenty of 'em."

"Damn straight we do."

An icy, unfamiliar voice froze Carol to her spot, invisible roots shooting up from the brittle grass to twist around her ankles and tether her down. Daryl went to spin around, but the cool press of a shotgun's muzzle in the small of his back made him stop. Without shifting her head, Carol glanced over at him. The look in his eyes begged her to stand still and cooperate.

_Stay calm,_ she commanded herself, forcing her breathing to stay steady, _Stay calm, we'll fix this. _

"Drop your weapons and turn around," ordered the stranger. The voice was indubitably female; unwavering, confident, authoritive. She wasn't native to Georgia, either. Her English accent would've been lovely, but there was an unsettling austerity in her tone.

Daryl had no doubts that she wouldn't hesitate for a second before punching him and Carol both full of holes. He made it his top priority to avoid that at all costs.

Carol let her machete drop to the ground, apparently not too keen on eating a round of bullets for breakfast. Daryl was more careful about his crossbow, but surrendered all the same. He did, however, keep one hand taut and ready to reach for the hunter's knife strapped to his hip. He hoped its hilt went unnoticed.

Slowly, he and Carol spun to face this strange, foreign woman.

Her muscles were locked, but she wasn't tense. There was a demanding sort of look on her face; an unsettling hardness in her frosty blue eyes. Her hair was a devastation, choppy and tangled, her long, lanky bangs plastered to her forehead with sweat. Her clothing was shredded to ribbons, mud-splattered and bloodstained. There was a feral quality too her, like all her humanity had washed away, leaving only primal instincts intact.

The walker apocalypse had bred and suckled a new race of humans, and she was the spitting image of it.

"Who the hell're you?" Daryl asked, trying his best to keep the confrontation civil for Carol's sake. The woman simply cracked a smile, undaunted.

"Funny, I was about to ask you the same thing," she retorted, "But I've got the shotgun and you've got your back against the wall, so I don't see how I'm the one who should be answering the questions."

Daryl scowled, but succumbed to her logic.

"Daryl Dixon," he said, "An' -"

"_Carol_," Carol finished quickly, very much capable of speaking for herself, thank you very much.

Daryl turned his attention back to the woman and said gruffly, "Your turn."

There was a second of silence preluding her reply.

"Shannon O'Doyle," she answered curtly, though she almost sounded as if she hadn't uttered her own name in a very long time. Shannon readjusted her grip on the gun, growing fidgety with impatience. "Now that we've gotten over the introductions, we can skip straight to the goodbyes. Turn around, walk back to the road, follow it left - not right,_ left _- but avoid the highway. Stay on the outskirts of town, keep out of the center and do _not_ try for the border. Either of you makes any sudden movements, I perceive it as an attack and shoot you both on principle. Clear?'

Daryl seemed too taken aback by her response to muster up any decent one of his own, so Carol took it upon herself to communicate. Perhaps Shannon would feel more willing to negotiate if she could converse with a fellow woman.

"Shannon," Carol began, swallowing hard to wet her throat. She tried to nervously eye the shotgun as little as possible. "We came up here 'cause we're lookin' for someone Daryl knows, so if you've got any idea about a man named Skeeter - "

"There's nobody around here by that name," Shannon cut in with almost frantic haste, as if she'd been caught off guard and had to scramble to cover up some secret. "I'm terribly sorry."

Carol's mouth hung slack a bit as she searched for something to say. Daryl looked tempted to draw his knife, and she slowly, ever-so-discreetly signaled _no. _Quick as lightning, Shannon was on it, swinging her firearm up so Daryl stared down its muzzle.

"I can assure you there is nothing for you two here, so if you'd be so kind, I've had a sort of rough day and would prefer not to have to shoot anybody."

Daryl chuckled, though the sound came out parched. "Coincidence, 'cause we're preferrin' not to get shot."

Shannon sneered, her button nose wrinkling in disgust, the creases around her eyes deepening.

"Ha, ha," she mocked dryly. "You're hilarious. Unfortunately, I'm exhausted and at the end of my rope, which means my tolerance is pretty much non-existent. So I'm going to give you two ten seconds to high-tail it out of here before I open fire on you both. One..."

Worry and fear flashed across Carol's face.

"Wait!" she cried. "Please!"

"Two..."

"We're good people, I swear! We've got children, an' a baby!"

"Three..."

"We can help out with whatever you need, an' we've got plenty of guns an' ammo. We can help keep this place safe!"

"Four..."

"Please, I'm beggin' you! You can trust us, I swear!"

"Five..." Shannon sighed, directing her focus back to Daryl. "Y'know, you're awful calm for a man with a gun on him."

Daryl's face was somehow deadpan.

"Guess I could say the same about you."

Shannon underwent a single moment of confusion before the butt of Rick's rifle connected with her skull. There was a dull _thunk_ and then a loud _thud_ as her body collapsed into the crisp, fated leaves.

Rick stared down at a motionless Shannon, unable to surpress the slight guilt he felt at having just clocked an unsuspecting woman in the head. Daryl shared no such guilt; Shannon had had a cheese grater-like effect on his nerves.

"Nice sneakin'," Daryl said to Rick, impressed. He'd kept a careful surveillance on Rick the whole time, from the moment he crept out of the woods, and was eternally grateful that events had gone in their favor for once and Rick hadn't ended up with a shotgun blast to the face.

In fact, if Shannon hadn't been so distracted by a certain someone's begging and pleading, he probably would've.

Daryl turned to Carol, noticing the glow of pride surrounding her despite her best attempts to stifle it and remain humble.

"An' nice actin'," he said, and he could've sworn she beamed even brighter.

"What can I say? I took drama in high school."


End file.
